Ignorance
by cristhekool
Summary: Pre-LWW. As the Pevensies prepare to leave Finchley, a not so special accident stimulates Peter's memories of a simpler, but perhaps not happier time in his young life. I own nothing, of course.
1. Chapter 1

Walking to the park was especially tedious that afternoon. Peter could feel an unnatural weight hanging in the air, reinforced by summer heat. Disquiet lay on the Pevensie siblings like a mourning shroud, pressing them into silence, causing their feet to drag, creating more scuffle-marks on already worn shoes. A young woman with painstakingly blonde hair and tight skirt spotted them near the arching entranceway, her eyes flashing with interest, sending messages that Peter ignored, because he was with his siblings. Because he wasn't that kind of fellow. Because he…oh, just because. He gripped Lucy's hand tighter.

"Peter," Susan attempted to say agreeably, her tone coming off rather forced, "I think we should stop for an ice cream." She moved up and brushed against him, shoulder to arm and pointed to the vendor scooping creamy pink perfection into a cone. Lucy stiffened with excitement, her child senses asserting themselves, wanting that colorful sweetness with single-minded focus, growing afraid that Peter would disapprove and walk past without stopping. Peter could feel all this through her hand, the tightening of her little fingers upon his. Lucy wasn't all that difficult to discern.

The girl bent over forward to adjust her nylons, flashing a hint of golden skin and shadow, her kohl-rimmed eyes fluttering pleasantly.

"Peter."

"Yes," he hummed, not pleasantly, turning his body so that Lucy could not see either salesperson, now looking down into Susan's irritated eyes, "What did you say?"

"I said 'we should stop for an ice cream'. It's hot, Peter."

She crossed her arms, mouth pulling downward, sweat beading upon her pale brow. Behind her, Ed shuffled his feet, attempting to stare at the ground, but not quite managing, sneaking peeks at the nylon-girl with his cheeks flushed. This didn't aggravate Peter, yet. Young boys tended to be curious.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," Peter grudgingly gave in, reaching into his shirt-pocket for the shillings he'd dropped in earlier that day, when he'd felt cheerier, looking forward to a romp in the park. Before the post came. Before Mum had called her two eldest into the sitting room, eyes red-rimmed, hands folded in her lap, ever so properly.

He shook his head quickly, inhaled…didn't want to think about that. "Right then," he mumbled, turning and allowing himself to be pulled towards the vendor, allowing himself a faint smile as Lucy bounced with happiness, so easily delighted. He remembered being young like that, filled with irrepressible innocence that bubbled and spurted within, spilling out at the most mundane of moments. Creating light.

That felt like such a long, long time ago.

"We'll take four cones, please. Two strawberry, one chocolate, one van…"

"Vanilla," Ed finished for him, his eyes meeting Peter's briefly in smoldering rebellion, daring him to say anything, to do nothing. Peter did neither, and nodded his approval, forcing a smile for the vendor, who looked rather unsure.

"That was rude, Ed," Susan murmured, as Peter handed over his shillings and pretended not to hear. If Susan wanted to scold Ed, that was fine, as long as she didn't expect Peter to back her up. He wasn't really in the mood today.

Ed didn't reply, but licked his white cone in a vertical zigzag, sinking back into his self-created isolation. They proceeded into the park.

There was a spot of coveted shade close enough to the exit, underneath a sturdy tree with sun burnt leaves. Ed drifted off in search of his trouble-making pals, and Lucy, driven by sugar, quickly found another little girl to play tag with, shrieks of delight becoming immersed in the many voices floating around, human and otherwise.

"Don't wander far," Susan called after her, sinking onto the blanket next to Peter, nibbling on the tail end of Ed's discarded cone. Now that it was just the two of them, the tension that had been hidden for their sibling's sake was allowed to emerge, souring the air within Peter's lungs. He cleared his throat and laid back, studiously avoiding Susan's discerning gaze.

"You know," she said almost casually, after watching Lucy play for a time, "I'm not at all certain, but I read that homemade ice cream tastes better."

"Really," Peter replied, sensing that she would not be satisfied with an affirmative grunt. He felt a headache coming on.

"Yes. Maybe in the country…"

"I don't want to talk about that," he announced quietly but firmly, turning onto his right side, back to Susan. Her hurt and frustration broadcast clearly to him, but he shut it out by closing his eyes, feeling the warm breeze flow across his skin, now that he'd turned into it.

"Ignoring it won't make it go away, Peter," she whispered, but didn't press him to reply. Briefly, she considered joining Lucy in play, but found neither the energy nor unction within herself to do so. So she turned onto her left side, and sought no solace in the wind against her back, but in sleep that came instantly, without permission, but not without welcome.

Behind her, Peter's fist clenched in uneasy rest.

It was an hour later that the storm clouds rolled in, dark grey and formidable, scattering Lucy's playmates and leaving her quite alone, ice cream sated and rain sprinkled. Peter woke to her pudgy fingers beating on his torso, her little voice squealing in equal parts child-like delight and lady-like horror at being slowly soaked through to the bone. The tone of her voice startled him, but not enough to rouse him to immediate action. Therefore, he just groaned and rolled over, shaking Susan's droplet-coated arm.

"Su…wake up, Su. It's raining."

"What is it, Peter?" She was wakening grumpy, he could tell by her voice. Lucy wiggled in growing unhappiness, feeling the water begin to soak through her jumper and into her panty hose.

"Ugh," the tone of Susan's voice changed from testy to disgust as a droplet fell from a branch onto her nose. She pulled herself upright and looked for Edmund. There he was, running towards them with an incredulous look upon his face, holding a wet newspaper over his dark head.

"Come on!" He grabbed the edges of the blanket with his free hand and pulled anxiously, eyes flashing with impatience. His feet scrambled for purchase on the slippery grass, finding no support in his skinny legs and knobby knees.

"Alright," Peter grumbled, staggering to his feet and wrapping his fingers around Lucy's, "We're going. Take Susan's hand, Ed."

Ed stuffed his hand into his pocket, scowling.

"Ed!" Peter was awake now.

Susan tucked the soggy blanket underneath her arm and grabbed Ed's elbow, jerking him towards the exit, rolling her eyes. "Let's go."

The ice cream vendor was nowhere to be seen as they scurried through the archway, having abandoned the park for drier ground when the clouds first began to form. The prostitute, Peter pretended not to notice, was still there though, now on the street corner, curls plastered to her mascara-smudged cheeks. She looked so insignificant now, so piteous with her arms wrapped around herself, eyes meeting Peter's without a trace of pride. He wondered what she saw, when she looked at him.

Probably what he saw, in his minds eye: a serious, baby-faced teenager, pretending to be mature, dragging his reluctant family home after a rare day of clear horizons and warm sunshine.

It didn't matter, he supposed, for there were more pressing issues at hand. Mum.

Mum would not be pleased.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, my dears," was the first thing that Mum cried, bolting out of her chair by the window and meeting them halfway to the front door, kneeling and clutching Lucy to her breasts, grabbing Edmund as he attempted to squeeze past her without stepping on the muddy lawn. "I was so worried."

The rain plastered her hair to her head, and Peter had to look away, because she looked so vulnerable, attempting to absorb her children through kisses and tears. That couldn't be his mum, fear stark upon her lovely face. Then again, he'd thought the same thing when Dad had first come downstairs (a year ago to the day) proud and shaking in his uniform.

_Mum had taken the girls out for sodas, and Ed hadn't yet returned for the summer. His school let out mid-June instead of late May like his siblings'. So it was just Peter who stood at the bottom of the stairs, forcing a smile of approval, while his insides twisted into a black knot that refused to become undone._

_"Well, Peter?" Father paused on the last stair and struck a manly pose, mouth laughing but blue eyes solemn. "How do I look?"_

_"…Smashing, dad," Peter whispered, standing on tiptoe to lay the bowl-shaped hat upon his father's blonde hair, hair so similar to his own._

_Unexpectedly, Dad had grabbed Peter's shirt collar and pulled him tight against his chest, letting out a shuddering sigh. "Take_ _care of them for me, eh Peter? Like a good man?"_

__

Peter had been to choked up to reply in words, but when Dad stepped onto the train a week later, Peter felt the mantle of responsibility settle upon his slender shoulders with weight that he had never felt before.

He felt more of that suspicious load sink onto his spirit when Mum's eyes met his over Lucy's head, somewhat accusing, but mostly full of tears.

"What happened," she asked him later in the bathroom, scrubbing at Edmund's water softened skin with a hot cloth. The girls had already bathed, and were warming up under their blankets with cups of hot chocolate that Peter could smell over the scent of apple shampoo. Seated on the toilet with a towel wrapped around his waist, Peter fought back a sudden surge of guilt.

"I fell asleep," he finally mumbled, passing her the soap when she held her hand out for it, "I'm sorry."

Hearing the suppressed pain in his voice, Mum sighed and paused in her cleaning long enough to caress Peter's slippery cheek. Her hand smelled like lye and perfume.

"Forgive me, love," she whispered, causing Ed's eyes to narrow suspiciously, first at her, then at Peter. He was already angry at being bathed with his brother in the room, but now he suspected something was wrong. Mum hardly ever coddled Peter anymore.

"I was beside myself," she murmured, wiggling the cloth around behind Edmund's ears, "What with more bombs dropping just last Tuesday, and this order…" She remembered that her younger boy was listening, and shut her mouth sharply. It was too late, though, and Peter watched his brother's clever mind turn the words over, assessing them.

"We're going away, aren't we," Ed finally concluded, hissing as Mum poured a cup full of steaming water over his back. "Don't lie to me," he pressed, when she stiffened in surprise, "Phil told me. He's going stay with his step-mum in Ireland."

She didn't reply, but her silence was enough confirmation for Edmund. He glared at Peter as if it were his fault, brown eyes burning with slow-building resentment. Peter soothed himself by imagining that Ed was really angry at leaving Finchley, and not at being left out.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes (on rare occasion) Ed really was a tolerable chap. He would drop the smart-alecky, loner act that made Mum sit alone at the kitchen table at night, biting her nails and worrying silently for the little boy that had slipped through her loving hands somewhere between toddler-hood and adolescence. She didn't think that Peter was awake, thought he was tucked into bed with the rest of his siblings. She forgot that he worried too, in Dad's absence. So when he tiptoed past the couch with an empty coffee cup (hot chocolate ring circling the rim), she wasn't aware that he saw her tears and paused in the doorway, his heart constricting beneath his blue-striped nightshirt.

"Mum," he ventured cautiously, turning his back and placing his cup in the sink, forgetting about that midnight snack. He gave her a moment to compose herself, but when he looked around, she was shaking spastically, eyes tightly shut. Peter didn't know what to do, because he wasn't Dad. He couldn't gather her into his strong arms and kiss the moisture from her cheeks. He couldn't hold her until she fell asleep. Dad could comfort Mum, because he took care of her. He made her feel safe.

Peter was just…Peter. So he opened the icebox and poured her a glass of cold milk.

Dawn illuminated Mum's exhausted face with golden light as she eased open her bedroom door, Peter close on her heels. He tucked the blankets about her snugly, adjusted the pillows and closed the curtains. "Sleep well, Mum."

"That's a…good man…"

Peter shut the door firmly behind him, massaging his pounding temples. He didn't hear Ed approaching, didn't see the vulnerability upon his little brother's sleep-loosened face. Edmund had just dreamt of his father gutted and bullet-ridden, eyes blank, staring straight through him.

Ed jabbed him in the ribs. When Peter turned with a yelp of shock and clenched fists, all he saw was a lazy smirk and mocking eyes. The tear tracks were beyond Peter's discernment.

"Sleepwalking?"

"Shove off, Ed," Peter whispered sadly, brushing past and into the room they shared, lying down on the bed in a cold sweat. "Just leave me alone." He burrowed into the pillows, fighting a sudden, despairing urge to cry.

"Fine," Ed hissed, hurt and angry for being hurt, yanking a sheet from under Peter's stomach and making for the door. Presumably, he was going to complete his rest on the couch. Peter chose not to care. He curled into a human ball of anxiety and shut his eyes tight, trying to imagine that times were better, but unable to convince himself.

Susan cooked breakfast that morning.


	4. Chapter 4

__

"Peter…Peter…"

"That's his name, is it?"

"Yes. Sweet little Peter."

Soft hands. Warm hands, lifting him.

"You're going to be a gentleman…I can see it in his eyes, Helen."

Mum laughter. "Of course he will be. He has you for a father."

Abruptly, Peter was cold.

"Dad!" Peter shot upright with one hand fisted instinctively, the other reaching outward with fingers splayed. As soon as his mind came into focus (open door, afternoon sky, and smell of supper), the dream slipped away. He tried to grasp it, fingers closing on empty air, for the smell of horseradish and tobacco (Dad's favorite pocket-fillers) lingered on the roof of his mouth. The feeling of being embraced had not completely faded. Peter looked around blearily, shivering in spite of the summer heat drifting in, courtesy of a cracked window.

He looked down, at his bare white knees and sweat-crusted nightshirt. The blankets were gone.

"Ed," Peter grumbled, sufficiently annoyed. He stood and grabbed a pillow, just incase the bugger was lurking somewhere in the room, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Peter wouldn't be had so easily, even half-asleep. "I'll show you."

The giggle that answered him was decidedly **not** Edmund's. Ed didn't giggle.

It had to be Lucy, Peter surmised, creeping towards the closet. Susan simply didn't play tricks (anymore). She had once, before she'd discovered books and how fulfilling it was to be smart. Therefore, the trickster had to be Lucy, who couldn't hide for two seconds without giving herself away. Peter felt a smile coming on. Lucy he could handle.

"Gotcha!" He roared, throwing open the closet and reaching behind a box of Ed's toys, grabbing Lucy about the waist and hoisting her into his arms. She squealed delightfully, pounding on his shoulders and kicking his thighs with stocking-clad feet.

"Peter," she squeaked when he began to tickle her sides, her plump cheeks turning bright red from laughter, "Peter, stop it!"

"And why should I," he replied very calmly, finding the sensitive spot just beneath her armpits, "You woke me up."

"I'm sowwy! Peter!"

He relented, ceasing the tickle torture and lowering Lucy to the ground. "Well, I suppose if you're sorry…"

"Thank you," she said primly, attempting to smooth down her jumper and regain some lady-like dignity. "Mum says you're to come down and eat. We're all waiting for you." A grin popped onto her face. "Ed's getting very grumpy, he…"

Peter grasped her arm gently and steered her towards the door. "I need to clean up, Lu. Where did you put the blankets?"

"What blankets?" Her button nose wrinkled in confusion. She glanced back towards the rumpled bed as if noticing the absence of sheets for the first time.

"Never mind. Go on, now. Tell Mum I'll be right down." She obediently scampered down the hallway, for a moment. Then she skidded to a stop. "Peter?"

"Yes, Lu?" He drew his nightshirt back down and opened the bedroom door, peeking out.

"Are you alright?"

He had to think about it for a moment before he recalled that she had been in the room during his dream…and therefore, during his sudden awakening. He beckoned her closer and crouched, forcing a smile as the weary despair threatened to hang over him again. "I'm fine, it was just a dream."

She didn't seem convinced, and crossed her arms in Mum fashion. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, now not another word about it. It'll be our little secret, alright?"

Lucy liked secrets. She bit her lower lip and giggled, nodding in approval. "Alright."


	5. Chapter 5

Peter found the blankets in a heap next to the bed, on the side facing the window, and not the door and closet. He must have kicked them off in his sleep.

"Jolly good," he groaned, abandoning the buttons on his shirt and crawling sideways across the bed on his stomach, bare feet dangling off the far edge, a perfect target for tickling. Peter tried very hard not to think of that possibility, and nabbed the sheets. All his siblings were downstairs, at any rate, and unlikely to sneak up for the sake of a little harassment.

Sure enough, Peter retrieved the blankets without incident, and wiggled back to his feet triumphantly, though he was unable to stop peeking out the window at their neighbor's house. A dark shroud blocked out any view inside. Peter was glad for that. The pale pink chiffon curtain that used to hang there was gone (he doubted that anyone had those sort of fancies anymore, because of the war).

He did not have good memories of that curtain.

_"Susan!"_

_"Yes, Peter," she sang from the doorway, crossing her pudgy arms and giving him the most patient look that an twelve-year-old could summon, icy eyes dulled in apathy. Peter felt a surge of irritation shot through him. She thought he was being silly, but she hadn't lost her favorite pair of suspenders._

_"They're not in here," he whined in increasing frustration, shooting out of the closet to pout, kneeling to look under the bed, "Are you certain you checked the wash basket?"_

_"Yes," Susan groaned, stomping her new Mary-Jane's and glancing over her shoulder at the staircase. Dad had taken Edmund and Lucy out to the automobile, but Mum was waiting for them just below. Peter could sense her impatience, could visualize her frowning, fixing her lipstick in the hall mirror and glancing up at his bedroom door. If only she knew that he didn't even have his shirt on yet, then she would be more than impatient. Peter shuddered at the thought._

_"Come off it, Peter," Susan said as gently as possible, opening his top drawer and withdrawing the spare suspenders, "You can wear the brown ones. They're perfectly respectable."_

_"I don't 'want' to wear those," Peter whispered, fishing around bodily underneath the bed, coming up for air a few seconds later with only dust bunnies and a stuffed cat for his efforts. Susan ignored him and drew a shirt out of the closet, unbuttoning it and folding down the collar._

_"Mum's going to be very angry," she stated matter-of-factly, holding the shirt up for Peter to slip into. "Then you'll wish you'd listened to me."_

_"Hmph." Peter agreed with her, but just couldn't bring himself to give up searching. It had to be somewhere nearby…_

_"Aha! There they are!"_

_He dove across the bed and reached down, retrieving the suspenders and grinning idiotically, until he casually looked out the window, and so happened to see Mr. Holmes grab his dainty wife with a roar of rage and hurl her onto their bed. He unbutton his trousers and advanced on her, face red and twisted._

_Seeing Peter's bare back stiffening, Susan frowned and glanced out the window as well. The shirt fell to the floor with nary a whisper, drowned out by the sudden, panicked pounding of their hearts._

_"Mum!"_

_The pink curtain fluttered restlessly._

Dad had called the police, but both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had denied the entire incident. With no witnesses to prove otherwise (save two children barely into puberty), the event was smoothed over quickly, minimum gossip circulating, much to Mrs. Holmes relief (she never came over for tea again, after that).

People, Peter learned, didn't like to speak of such things.

However, Dad had cornered Peter the next evening, ushering him into the study while Mum put the others to bed.

_"Peter," he grunted, lighting a cigar and leaning back in his favorite armchair, a navy-blue contraption that was far more comfortable than it looked. "Peter, I want to talk with you about yesterday's events, about what you and your sister saw."_

_"Yes, sir," Peter mumbled at the floor, carefully concealing his emotions. Actually, when he probed himself, Peter concluded that he wasn't feeling much of anything (save numb)._

_"Peter," Dad continued, tone softening, "Come here." He pointed to the carpet infront of the chair, puffing out a cloud of rustic-smelling smoke. Peter shuffled forward obediently._

_"I know that what you saw was rather unpleasant, and that you must be confused about what it meant."_

_"I know what it meant, sir."_

_Pause. "Alright, then I won't bother explaining it to you. I do want you to know, son," Dad placed a callused finger under Peter's jaw and drew his head up very seriously, "That Mr. Holmes was entirely in the wrong, to hurt his wife like that. Sally is a perfectly delightful woman."_

_"If she wasn't delightful," Peter dared to ask, his voice barely whispering, "Then would it be just?"_

_"No," Dad sat back, inhaling agitatedly. The cigar butt flared orange-red. "It's never just to harm someone weaker than yourself."_

_"What if I was in the right, and wasn't stronger?" Peter thought of pummeling Mr. Holmes, and felt the ice around his heart crack, just a wee bit._

_"I suppose you can't avoid fighting forever," Dad thought about it for a moment, "But never fight simply because you want to, Peter. Fight only if you must. And never," his expression darkened in anger that Peter knew wasn't directed at him, "__Never __hit a woman."_

__

"Yes, sir."

"Do you understand me, Peter? Only when you must."

"Yes, sir." But Peter didn't understand, not really.

_"_Peter! We're waiting!"

Peter snapped his suspenders and mind into place and hurried out of the room, careful not to look out the window again. He didn't like how it felt, when he remembered.


	6. Chapter 6

Sunday passed as a peaceful lull, the Pevensie clan tromping obediently to church and back home again for an afternoon of pleasant monotony and board games. Susan turned the last page of _A Tale of Two Cities_, Lucy convinced Edmund to build a fortress with her (a miracle in itself, but he was bored senseless) out of blocks and blankets. Peter sat inside it laughing to himself as they bickered on and on about how to construct a turret. They finally settled on a rectangle box, pilfered from the attic. Mum exclaimed over the finished product.

Then Monday came.

"Peter, darling," Mum called from the study, where she'd withdrawn to when the post came. The four siblings continued to eat their breakfast in silence, nervously listening for any sounds of distress from behind the closed door. All they'd heard for the past ten minutes was the rhythmic rustling of papers. At the summons, Peter pushed away from the table with hurried hands, his chair shrieking in protest as its feet scraped across the floor.

"Yes, Mum," he questioned softly, stepping into the oppressive space that Dad's study had become and shutting the door behind him, at her wordless request. She smiled at him and extended a letter, the paper yellow and torn at the edges, but covered from top to bottom in Dad's handwriting nonetheless. Peter accepted it respectfully, clutching the parchment involuntarily to his breast as if it were really Dad in the present, and not an echo of his state of mind sometime in the past (they didn't ever know what date the letter would have written in the upper-right corner).

"Can we read all of it, Mum?" By 'we' he really meant Edmund and Lucy, whom they tried to shield from the more adult portions of Dad's letters. Mum understood, and nodded.

"That portion is just for you children. Go on, now," she shooed indulgently, when he hesitated, "I know you're quite eager."

He would have grinned and bolted from the room, gathered his siblings on the couch and devoured the message in his hands. They would have spent hours reading it over and over as a group, and reassuring each other that 'yes' Dad was safe, and 'of course' he would be home soon. However, something in Mum's eyes gave Peter pause, body half into the kitchen.

"Yes, Peter?" She looked up from her paperwork with an eyebrow raised in a statement that would have had Peter meekly hastening from the room a mere year ago. Now he called for Susan quietly, and handed her the letter.

"Read this to Ed and Lucy, will you? I'll be along shortly."

Susan was too excited to be put out by his bossiness (albeit polite bossiness) and complied with only a discomforted attempt to figure out what was wrong, for something obviously was. Peter laid a pacifying hand on her back and urged her with a gentle push to follow the others, who had scurried off into the drawing room at the first glimpse of yellowed parchment.

The door shut behind her with a foreboding thump.

"Mum." Peter would have to do this carefully. He approached the desk and laid his slender fingers over hers, the long digits golden and dark against her creamy skin. "Please tell me what's the matter. I promised Dad I would help you."

She glanced up at him with bloodshot, frustrated eyes, sighed, and Peter knew he wasn't in trouble.

"Read this." She passed him another letter, this one crisp, white, with a short message that came out of a typewriter.

__

Dear Mrs. Pevensie,

_In light of the financial situation that your family has experienced this past year, we here at Govent Electric have not pressed you for payment. Your deficit has become so severe, however, that we must take action. Either pay your full due by the end of June, or we will be forced to turn off your electricity._

_Sincerely apologetic,_

_Govent Electric & Co_

The figure at the bottom of the page was large, very large. Peter's eyes widened in shock. He passed the letter back to Mum.

"I'm working all the hours I can while trying to keep this family together," Mum whispered, and Peter realized that she was uncomfortably close to tears, "And I can't ask you and Ed to do anymore paper routes. I see how tired you both are, although you try to hide it from me."

He couldn't deny it, and had the grace to blush.

"I've considered asking Susan to come work with me at the hospital, heaven knows they need more hands…but I can't," she began to sob in earnest, holding her temples between shaking thumb and forefinger, "I can't do that to Lucy."

Peter offered Mum his handkerchief, regretting having pressed her. She bypassed the cloth, grabbed his hand, and clung tightly. The clock struck nine from the drawing room.

"Don't worry, Mum," Peter offered weakly, not able to think of anything else, "It'll all work out. I can still get another route, and…"

Another paper caught his eye, one with seal of the Queen upon it. The evacuation order. Peter's heart dropped from his stomach, shot down his legs, and settled sadly at the base of his feet. Mum caught his eye and shook her head wordlessly.  
"Peter! Peter! Dad sent kisses!"

Lucy threw the door open and rushed at Peter, arms outstretched and face beaming. He lifted her and turned around before she could see Mum's distress, let her cover his face with enthusiastic pecks. Mum hastily grabbed the forgotten handkerchief off the desk and wiped her face with it, laughing through her tears at Lucy's manic demonstration of love.

"Muah, muah, muah!" Lucy finished with a solid smooch just above Peter's left ear, her innocent eyes dancing enthusiastically. "There. Ed wouldn't have his, so you got extra."

"Do you have anymore for me, love?" Mum opened her arms, and Peter lowered Lucy to ground so that she could scramble around the desk and dive into them. Mum clutched her youngest child to her breasts, and though Lucy could not deliver her kisses from such a confined position, she wasn't complaining.

Peter came up behind them and gingerly laid his cheek on top of Mum's glossy hair, sighing and shutting his eyes against the fragile moment. He could hear Lucy babbling happily, Ed and Susan arguing over the parchment in the drawing room. All that filled his mind, however, was the evacuation.

They would have to start packing tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

"But I don't want to go!" Lucy shrieked, bawled and made an unearthly fuss upstairs, where Mum had gently laid her down and informed her of the evacuation. That was ten painful minutes ago. Peter nearly dropped a dripping plate as a particularly high-pitched wail knifed into his ear, but caught it just in time, passing the delicate porcelain to Susan for drying.

"Will she ever shut up," Ed mumbled, sweeping up crumbs from behind the table. Kitchen chores were his least favorite of all (not that any chore deserved the status of 'favorable', in the Pevensie mind). Between flying suds, scraping leftovers, and the screaming from upstairs he had switched from being contented over Dad's letter to his current state: grouchy and uncharitable, snapping at Peter and Susan without provocation.

"Well," Susan sighed, placing a fork amongst its peers in the utensil drawer, "She is rather upset, you know. Little children prefer things to stay the way they are."

"Don't try to fool me, Susan," Ed scoffed, pausing with the dustpan dangling over the litter basket, "**You've** been moping for days."

"What do you care," she shot back, forfeiting her proper conduct and revealing true ire for the first time this week. Her fist clenched around the dishtowel.

"Who said I did?"

"Stop it, you two," Peter warned, rinsing off a bowl and shoving it into Susan's unsuspecting hands. She fumbled in her anger and dropped the dish onto the floor. It broke cleanly in half, one piece staying at her feet, the other skidding across the linoleum, into the drawing room, and under the couch.

"Perfect, Susan," Ed accused after a moment of silence (if Lucy's sobbing didn't count), dumping the dustpan whole into the garbage and making for the couch to retrieve the section.

Susan in turn glared at Peter, who was crouched on the floor trying to retrieve the half-bowl without cutting himself. He could feel her eyes on him, but didn't bother looking up. He'd seen that face twisted in anger too many times to be anxious. Instead, he felt rather calm, as if in a light drizzle, after a downpour.

"I think I can fix it," Peter murmured after a bit of contemplation, taking the other side from Edmund and trying to fit the two together.

"Oh, certainly," Susan whispered, her tone biting. She reached into the sudsy water and retrieved another bowl, washing it herself. Peter blinked stupidly in mild surprise and looked to Edmund for explanation, but the younger boy shook his head and grabbed the drying towel from the counter.

"You don't believe me?" Peter rose and tapped his foot, growing annoyed. It was just a bowl, surely he could glue it back together.

His siblings purposefully mantained their silence, creating an isolated bubble infront of the sink. They washed and dried as if he didn't exist, dark heads and backs solemnly bent. Peter sighed and slunk off towards the stairs, cradling the broken bowl in his hands.

"Shhh, my dear," Mum was whispering from the girls' room, lying on top of the blankets with Lucy in her arms. Lucy was merely hiccuping now, staring blankly at the wall, her round hands tightly clutching Mum's robe, knuckles white. Peter tiptoed past them and into the bathroom, where they kept the glue.

__

"What's glue, Peter," Edmund whispered as if Peter were withholding a great secret, his baby voice trembling in excitement. Lucy listened intently from her cradle. Her blue eyes were wide and staring fixedly at Peter's hands, where he clutched a small, grey tube.

"Glue," Peter relayed importantly to both of them, squeezing and letting a small dab of clear cream rest on his fingertip, "Makes things stick together. It's very useful."

"But what 'is' it," Ed pressed, bouncing on his heels and leaning forward, studying the goo with scientific intent. Peter found this persistence annoying and grimaced sullenly, unconsciously imitating his father when he was displeased.

"Doesn't matter," he continued, grabbing one of Ed's fists and opening it, causing the younger child to wail in protest. Fortunately Mum and Dad had gone to dinner, and Mrs. Westley was napping downstairs (Susan was reading to her, and that would put anyone to sleep).

"Here," Peter grinned to himself and squirted a thick dab of the glue onto Edmund's palm, "Now rub your hands together."

Ed scowled, but did as he was told.

"Good, now try to pull them apart...See," Peter crowed in satisfaction, "You're glued together."

Edmund grunted and strained, but he simply couldn't get his hands free from each other. Peter reached over, intending to impress his brother with his strength, but found that even the two of them pulling together couldn't separate the midget palms. Two minutes later, he started to panic.

Peter chuckled to himself as he held the two pieces of bowl together, glue thickly smeared between them. He'd had his first trip to the woodshed that evening, partially for hurting his brother, but mostly for scaring Mrs. Westley out of her mind. The poor woman had been admitted to a nursing home not four months after that.

"There," Peter grunted to himself, studying the porcelain with a faint smile, "That should do it." He put the glue back in the medicine cabinet.

"Did you fix it then," Susan murmured when Peter ventured back downstairs, looking up from her novel long enough to send him an apologetic smile and questioning glance. Ed, piecing together a complicated puzzle, didn't even sneak a peek at Peter's handiwork.

"Um, yes," Peter replied absently, placing the bowl in the window to dry a bit more. It would be good as new, he was certain of it.


	8. Chapter 8

"Pass me the socks," Peter asked (well, almost asked, as it came out more imperious than he'd planned), holding out his right hand while making room in his bag with the left. Ed grabbed the ankle-highs from the drawer, bypassed Peter's outstretched fingers, and dropped them onto the bed.

"Get them yourself."

It was funny, Peter thought as he snatched up the socks, scowling at Ed's lowered head. It was funny that no matter how often Ed did that to him, it still hurt, every single time. He wasn't in the mood to make a fuss though, and tucked the socks in beside his tie, and his pain in beside growing resentment.

Unknown to him, Edmund was thinking the exact same thoughts as he folded underpants. He didn't like being disrespected anymore than Peter did.

It was high noon, almost time for tea, but the Pevensie children had mutually agreed to skip it in order to finish packing early in the day. They would be hungry until supper, but the promise of fresh air hung over them pleasantly, spurring them all to complete the task as fast as possible.

Mum was letting them go to the park again. This would be their last outing.

_The lawn was soft, tangy-smelling, endless, and _green_...oh, yes, it was green. Green like Mum's party dress, green like Dad's favorite shirt, green like Susan's face when she was sick and throwing up in the bathtub. Peter scowled at the last comparison. That had been simply vile._

_"Peter," Dad said enthusiastically, leaning down and lifting him off the ground, "Would you like to play first, or have supper?"_

_"He's eating supper first," Mum grunted decisively before Peter could reply, holding her swollen belly and sitting down the blanket. _

_"Never mind," Dad whispered into his ear, deep voice filled with laughter. Peter was too young to appreciate the humor, and squirmed to get down. Susan was already eyeing the grapes (also green), and Peter wanted his fair share._

"Hurry up, Susan," Peter mumbled in irritation, leaning on the wall just outside the bathroom. Edmund and Lucy were waiting for them by the door downstairs; little sighs and groans of impatience drifted up every few seconds. They would start bothering each other soon, and Peter was getting anxious.

"I'm coming," Susan called back pleasantly, but Peter didn't believe her. She'd been saying that for the past (he checked the hall clock) ten minutes. He reached for the door handle, turned it.

"Peter!" Susan pushed her shoulder against the door, voice muffled by wood and toothpaste. He shoved harder, gaining a few inches.

"Peter Pevensie! You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh," he chuckled, sticking his foot in the opening, "Wouldn't I?"

"If you have to go," she growled, leaning her full body weight against the heaving door, "Then you should ask politely!"

"Yes, right then." Peter stopped pushing, crossing his arms in exasperation. "Please, Susan, can we go now?"

"We?"

"Yes. We should go. Outside!"

"What is all this yelling about." Mum came out of her bedroom with an armful of laundry, frowning deeply in disapproval, then in confusion. Peter imagined that he looked rather strange, panting from exertion. Susan was stronger than she looked.

"Nothing, Mum," they both whispered contritely, feeling immediately guilty. Mum's lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile, for it wasn't often that her eldest children expressed themselves in the same manner. They disagreed quietly, more often than not.

"Alright," she said firmly in spite of the warming in her heart, continuing on towards the staircase, "But no more of it, understood?"

"Yes, Mum." Peter waited until she was out of hearing range before pushing on the door again. Susan shoved back warningly.

"Please, Su," Peter said in a softer tone, crossing his arms uncomfortably, "Do come out."

Susan spat into the sink and rinsed away the mess, opened the door with an obliging sigh. "Why couldn't you have just said it like that in the first place?"

He rolled his eyes and stepped aside so that she could pass, saw the red stain on the back of her jumper almost immediately, grew both contrite and embarassed at once. "Um, Su...your skirt."

"What...oh," Susan gasped, blushing terribly and turning around. Back into the bathroom. Peter gave up fussing and went to get Mum from downstairs.

"May as well sit down," he said in passing to his youngest siblings, ignoring the incredulous eyes that followed him into the kitchen.

On second thought, maybe Susan should stay behind. Ed and Lucy looked ready to murder.


	9. Chapter 9

The trip to the park proved pleasant enough (Susan made it after all), although the ice cream man was nowhere in sight. Lucy hadn't been pleased about that. The prostitute was gone. Peter had been very pleased about that, very pleased indeed.

After seeing Ed and the girls safely home, Peter rushed to deliver his final route of papers before sundown. It wasn't what he'd envisioned on his last day. The patrons had never been this cool to him before, eyes red and tearful, tempers short. Although he grew more and more frustrated as the route went on, Peter couldn't be truly angry. These were parents (for the most part). Their children were leaving home too.

When at last Peter arrived home, he sank onto the porch stairs in exhaustion, wanting to calm down before going inside to solemn faces and high expectations. He took off his shoes and socks, stretched, and looked up...into beauty.

Peter had never seen a sunset quite as lovely as this one, sitting on the steps with splinters poking through his trousers, looking up into dusk without the barriers of a dusty window and complacent mind. The sky shone with promise, city smoke parting for just a moment, allowing Peter a glimpse of glorious color, pink and orange and lavender luminescence. Then, just when he began to smile, arching his back like a cat and yawning lazily, the shadow of pollution drifted over to obscure his view, squashing the poignant moment beneath layers of chemical haze. Peter's light-softened heart began to ache. He scratched the top of his head and rose, wandered back into the house with heavy legs.

"Peter, dear," Mum called from the study, her voice scratchy with contained emotion. She'd been like that all through supper, too troubled and anxious to eat her share. Susan had made her a cup of tea and sent her off to relax, promising to put Lucy to bed.

"Yes, Mum?" She beckoned, and Peter dutifully pulled up a chair next to Dad's armchair (Mum looked rather small in it).

"How was your route?"

"Smashing," he replied carefully, steepling his fingers and leaning in closer, "Mr. Hansen paid me extra today. He said that I would be missed."

"Yes, you will be," Mum said tenderly, stroking Peter's knee with a warm hand, bringing back memories of being held against her bosom and cuddled. He inhaled surreptitiously, imprinting her perfume into his memory.

"You're my strong right hand, Peter. Whatever will I do without you?"

"You'll manage," he patted her white hand reassuringly. "We all will."

"Take care of my babes," Mum continued as if she hadn't heard him, "Lucy and Edmund especially. I'm afraid for them."

"I'll look after them, Mum," Peter whispered gravely, gripping her hand firmly in his own and squeezing, "All of them. I promise."

After an awkward silence he excused himself, wandering towards the kitchen, intent on a glass of milk. He spoke to Edmund on his way through the drawing room in hopes of starting that 'looking after' that he'd promised to Mum, but the younger boy was staring at Dad's portrait by the window. He jumped and scowled accusingly at Peter, embarrassment warring with melancholy for dominance on his freckled face. Peter thought of comforting him, just for a moment. Then Edmund lashed out, face screwing up in anger and practiced cruelty, and Peter changed his mind.

He was just pouring his second glass when the alarms sounded. Lucy shrieked in terror from her bedroom, Susan flew by him, opening the cupboards and fishing around for the torch. Peter stared at her back blankly, his heart pounding.

Then the bombs began to fall.


End file.
